


O most loving father

by nolimepercipere



Series: Songs of Innocence [5]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Caregiver Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Daddy Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Little Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, love is stored in the yusuf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 04:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolimepercipere/pseuds/nolimepercipere
Summary: He had never really thought about being a father while growing up.Well, he had assumed he would eventually be a father. It would happen in that same nebulous way he knew he would one day take over his father’s business, get married, grow old, retire and eventually die of old age surrounded by his family.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Songs of Innocence [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101896
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	O most loving father

**Author's Note:**

> This is set some time around the 15th century. 
> 
> Happy Father’s Day Yusuf! :)  
> As usual, this is not beta’d. You'll find translations and notes in the End Notes

Despite having been teetering on the verge of awake for a while now, Yusuf didn’t want to leave their bed yet. Electing, instead, to keep enjoying the lazy morning. Nicolò had woken up way earlier, as usual, and shushed him back to sleep when he started stirring and grumbling, “Shh, no need to wake up yet, amore, you can stay longer.”

Sprawled on his side with his head gently resting on his bent arm and the sun casting its warming rays on his naked skin, he felt not too dissimilar to a lazy house-cat. The sunlight painted their room with ever-changing patterns as he stayed suspended in that hazy place between sleep and awake where time doesn’t really exist and everything is blissful and cozy.

A noise, loud and cracking, suddenly thrusts him to full consciousness. Heart in his throat, Yusuf sits up and looks around wildly.

“Nicolò?” He calls out, but no answer comes forth and the whole house stays stubbornly silent. So much so that he starts thinking he might have dreamed of the harsh noise. That still wouldn’t explain why Nicolò is not answering him, though. Hurriedly he pulls on some clothes and in his nervous haste he bumps against the foot of the bed, groaning loudly.

Their house is not that big and yet in this moment Yusuf feels like he’s wandering the halls of some great King’s palace. There’s no end to it as his gaze bounces from wall to wall, frantically looking for Nicolò and calling out to him with increasing dread. 

Finally, _finally_ , he comes to a halt when he gets to the kitchen and, there, he finds Nicolò standing frozen in the middle of a puddle that looks like a sad mix of eggs, milk… maybe, and definitely some flour. He looks tense, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders hunched, bowed down. Yusuf can barely glimpse at his trembling chin and lips.

He tries schooling his voice and presence to make them as gentle as he can. Not that it’s difficult as he would never dream of hurting Nicolò, least of all for some broken pottery and a little mess on their kitchen floor. But experience has taught him that when his beloved gets in this particular state of mind, as Yusuf strongly suspects is presently the case, he always expects to be hurt.

It grieves Yusuf’s heart to think of his own blessed childhood and the abundance of love he had received while on the other side of the sea a little boy was made to feel so unloved and undeserving of care. He likes to imagine his younger self would have gladly shared the gentle warmth of al-Mahdīyah with a lost, little boy with eyes the color of the glittering sea. The thought makes him smile.

“Hello little lamb, is that you?”

No answer, but it’s okay. Sometimes Nicolò doesn’t feel like talking. He won’t press him.

Yusuf shifts his attention to the rest of the room, looking around to see if he can get a better idea of what might have been going on. The fire under the stove has been stoked, logs crackling merrily away, and looking at their table he realizes there’s some sort of logic to the assortment of ingredients and utensils carefully lined up. 

Which makes sense since Nicolò had woken up… normal? 

As usual, Yusuf finds words failing him in these moments. What is Nicolò when his mind is not that of a child? 

He despises the word “normal”. There are undoubtedly many ways people could think them abnormal. First and foremost for the established fact that they cannot seem to stay dead; the nature of their mutual affection is another strong contender and Yusuf doesn’t want to add kindlings to that flame. Especially when what they do is something so pure, meant to comfort and soothe old wounds. 

So, Nicolò had woken up... feeling like himself? 

That’s another bad one. It would imply that Nicolò is not himself in those other moments, which simply doesn’t make sense. Nicolò is Nicolò whether he is the man Yusuf loves dearly or the child he dotes on with all his heart.

He’s yet to come across something that can accurately define this thing that happens to Nicolò. He has scoured libraries and read all matters of books whenever they have the time for it. Up until now he has found no mentions of something similar to what they do.

Returning his attention back to Nicolò he realizes that the longer the silence between them stretched the tenser Nicolò seems to have got. He’s holding himself so rigidly now, it looks like one touch will be enough to shutter him to ragged pieces. His tense arms have come up to wrap around his belly, clutching his shirt with white knuckles.

Yusuf slowly makes his way in front of him, hunching over to try and catch his gaze. When he places a gentle hand on his shoulder, Nicolò’s body flinches as if scalded. “Were you trying to cook something, habibi?”

Nicolò practically throws himself at him in a strong hug, flinging his arms around Yusuf and clutching at him tight, pressing his face to his shoulder. Yusuf feels more than hears the words as Nicolò starts mouthing a litany of “sorrys” into the crook of his neck.

He strokes his back in a conscious attempt to soothe his worries, “It’s okay, little lamb, I’m not angry.”

A nervous shudder and then the small reply, “no?”

Yusuf hums low in his throat as he shakes his head, “Not even one small bit.”

Fingers grip tightly on Yusuf’s back, “...even though I made a mess?” 

“No, sweetheart.” He places a fond kiss on the crown of his head and softly adds, “But I think you are too little to be using some of the things in the kitchen when you’re alone. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

They stay a little longer like that. Lips pressed to the side of Nicolò’s head, Yusuf sways them slowly as he hums an old tune, chest vibrating with each note.

“Will you help me clean up a bit, so we can cook together?” Nicolò nods against his shoulder and, when he eventually pulls away, he smiles tentatively at Yusuf with red and puffy eyes and uses his sleeve to wipe his nose. 

“Stay here, habibi!” Yusuf finds them an old cloth and brings it to Nicolò’s nose, “Here, blow, sweetheart.” 

Nicolò blushes but follows his instructions and once he’s finished, Yusuf balls up the used cloth and throws it in a corner to be dealt with later.

Next, he steers Nicolò away from the broken pottery and sets him to work on rearranging the ingredients on the table as he moves to pick up the bigger shards off the floor, collecting them in his bare hands, “Will you tell me what you wanted to make, Nicolò?”

“Was making _frisceü dôsci_ ”, comes the shy reply. Voice light and the ever-so-subtle tiny lisp he always gets in these moments accentuated by the sweet sounds of his language.

Yusuf turns and hides a small grimace. While he’d eaten those a couple of times together with Nicolò, he’d never made them himself nor he’s confident about the exact recipe. “I'm sorry tesoro, I don’t know how to make those...” 

Standing up to discard the broken pottery he finds Nicolò looking crestfallen, as he rubs meekly at his blotchy, puffy eyes. Yusuf feels his shoulders slump in response and, biting his bottom lip, he throws a helpless look at the ingredients set on the table. Willing them to help him find a solution. 

“We could make _sfenj_ instead, would you like that?” He thinks he can manage _sfenj_ and they have everything necessary to make them. After all, in essence, both _frisceü_ and _sfenj_ are some kind of fried dough. He hopes Nicolò agrees with him as he tries to imbue as much enthusiasm as he can into the offer.

Nicolò sniffles noisily and looks up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, “ _sfenj?_ ”

“They’re delicious, habibi! Remember? The last time we had them we were in... Wahrān, I think. No, maybe al-Mariyya!”

Nicolò blinks slowly, mind parsing through centuries of shared memories, and then nods resolutely. He walks up to Yusuf and looks at him expectantly. 

* * *

Time drifts by as they prepare the dough and then, as it rests, they busy themselves tidying up the kitchen. Once Yusuf deems the dough ready, he heats up some oil in their biggest pot and prepares for frying. 

Nicolò, standing close with his thumb secured in his mouth, pulls at his shirt and when Yusuf turns to him he mumbles a shy request, “story?”

“Hmm,” Yusuf raises a finger to his chin, feigning deep thought, “do you want a story about a greedy grasshopper?”

Nicolò hides a small smile behind his thumb and shakes his head. 

“A story about a prickly porcupine then?”

Nicolò huffs a snort and demands, “about a lamb!”

“Oh, I see, a story about a lovely, little lamb!” Yusuf starts shaping the dough and placing it in the hot oil, “A little lamb named…”, he turns to Nicolò feigning once again a puzzled expression. “Hmm, I’m drawing a blank here, habibi. What should the little lamb’s name be?”

“Nico.” As soon as the word is out of his mouth, he blushes and looks down.

“Good choice, sweetheart!” Yusuf gently bumps their shoulders together, before turning his attention back to the stove. “So, there once was a little lamb named Nico. He was small and fluffy and lived in a beautiful valley full of trees and blooming flowers.”

“Daisies.” Nicolò suggests as he comes standing closer. Yusuf makes sure to angle himself so that no sizzling oil can splash him.

“Of course, daisies. Nico spent his days grazing in the lush pasture playing with colorful butterflies and-”

“Frogs!”

“and frogs.” Yusuf smiles and starts spinning tales of Nico’s many adventures in the valley. “One day he saw a shiny, green frog hopping merrily along the stream and started following her. She hopped and hopped, and they wandered so far that, now, looking around poor Nico couldn’t even recognise the trees anymore. Nor find the way back home.”

Yusuf feels a hand nervously clutching at the hem of his shirt, “Poor Nico let out a pitiful bleating. It was almost dark and he really wanted to go home. Suddenly, a shrub nearby started rustling, catching Nico’s attention.” One glance to the side shows him Nicolò is hanging off his every word with wide, expecting eyes full to the brim with anticipation. “A sheep came out! Looking frantically around, ‘ _Here you are, Nico!’_ It was Nico’s mama!”

Relief floods Nicolò’s eyes and then something else, too quick for Yusuf’s to identify. He goes on with the story. “She had been so worried when she couldn’t find her little Nico anywhere in the grassy meadow, but a nice mouse had pointed the way. And now here mama sheep was, together with her baby.” Removing the last _sfenj_ out from the pot, Yusuf opts to quickly wrap up the story. “Together they walked home and Nico vowed to never again follow frivolous frogs out of the pasture without telling his mama first.”

Nicolò lets his head come to rest on Yusuf’s shoulder, “‘s a nice story. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you liked it, habibi.” He places a quick peck on his forehead, “Come now, the _sfenj_ are ready!”

* * *

Yusuf makes a show of cleaning Nicolò’s face off with a damp cloth even though he’s managed to keep himself relatively clean. “You are a mess, little one”, he says jokingly as Nicolò tries to squirm away from his hands while smiling. “Here we go, now you’re clean again!”

“Thank you, baba.”

All the color drains from Nicolò’s face as he realizes what he’s just said. He clamps shaking hands against his mouth, his eyes wide and horrified, his shoulders have started heaving as his breathing becomes labored. On his part, Yusuf is frozen. The hand holding the soft cloth still hovering in midair as he watches Nicolò scramble up and away from the table. 

Yusuf hears the dull echo of Nicolò’s steps, followed by the sound of the door latch. 

_Baba._

He lets the word roll off his tongue and voices it out loud a couple, or maybe a dozen, times. 

Nobody has ever called him with that word. 

He lowers his hand to the table and blinks rapidly, blowing out his cheeks and then releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He had never really thought about being a father while growing up. Well, he had assumed he would eventually be a father. One day. It would happen in that same nebulous way he knew he would one day take over his father’s business, get married, grow old, retire and eventually die of old age surrounded by his family.

Then al-Quds had happened and the rest, well, that’s now history.

Even when he had expected it would happen, it wasn’t something Yusuf had ever thought about in real, practical terms. He had never dreamed of teaching his child how to read and draw for example or taking them with him to the market to learn about spices and fabrics.

Yusuf scratches idly at his cheek before bringing both hands up to rub at his temples. Maybe he’s focusing on the wrong thing. 

The more rational part of his brain helpfully suggests that what really should stun him is not the idea of fatherhood itself, but the fact that at times Nicolò – his beloved, his moon and his stars. Someone his equal in life and death – has been thinking about him in those terms.

And it should, by all means, shock Yusuf but... does that word really change anything of what he’s done for Nicolò so far? Does it change anything about the way he cares for him? Yes, Nicolò is his lover, but also someone he takes care of, feeds and bathes and dotes on. He has been for centuries now.

He shakes his head with a small smile as a gentle warmth starts spreading in his chest. No, Yusuf never thought about being a father, but it turns out that maybe that’s exactly what he’s been doing for Nicolò all along. 

* * *

Walking outside Yusuf is pleased to find Nicolò hasn’t run too far. He’s sitting with his back to the outer wall of the house, just to the side of the door. His cheeks are wet, and he’s biting his fingers to bloody stumps. 

“Oh little lamb, sweetheart, please don’t do that.”

“I'm not... I’m- it’s me,” he ends dejectedly. “You don’t have to do that.” There are no traces of lisp in Nicolò’s resigned voice anymore. Yusuf sits down next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he keeps his head down, trying to avoid Yusuf’s eyes any way he can. “I- I didn’t mean to call you that. I wasn’t thinking… I-”

“Nicolò”

“I’m really sorry, Yusuf, I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“Nicolò”

“I swear, it wasn’t on purpose I-”

“Nicolò!” Yusuf firmly interrupts his increasingly frantic babbling. He puts one arm over his hunched shoulders and pulls him closer. “Habibi, can you take a breath for me?”

Nicolò sucks in a deep breath, like his body has only just realized how close to hyperventilating he is, and lets it out slowly trying to follow Yusuf’s steady rhythm.

“Thank you, sweetheart, you’re doing such a good job.”

Yusuf gets his other hand to grab one of Nicolò’s and squeezes it gently. “Here we go. Everything is fine.”

It takes some long seconds, but finally Nicolò starts calming, although his body is still thrumming with anxiety. “I really am sorry, Yusuf.”

“I don’t mind.” He admits openly, bringing his head to rest against Nicolò’s. “It did surprise me but… it felt right.”

Nicolò’s face goes bright red. His eyes widen almost comically and he squeezes Yusuf’s hand close to painfully “...really?”

“I told you many times that I like helping you and you usually don’t let me except for when- … in those moments.” He tries hard not to blush at the confession and probably fails. “And I guess, I mean, you calling me that doesn’t change anything. We would still be doing what we always did. It’s just a name for you to call me if you want to, same as I call you little lamb. And I don’t mind… it did feel right.” Yusuf trails off, voice going quiet as he realizes that this could all be a misunderstanding. Maybe Nicolò really didn’t mean to call him that and now he’s gone and made it even weirder getting all sentimental about it.

His spiralling is interrupted abruptly when he finds his lap full with Nicolò who threw himself across Yusuf and is now busy trying to burrow himself against his body. He feels a thank you mouthed against his skin and smiles hugging his little boy tight to his chest.

* * *

Yusuf is not sure how long they’ve been hugging, sitting outside. The sun is now high in the sky and the green grass is lit up by its warm rays. He’s almost starting not to feel his butt anymore, though. And the muscles of his legs are begging to be stretched. He’s about to suggest they get back inside when Nicolò surprises him once again. “ _Auguri._ ” 

Yusuf tilts his head to the side at the sudden well-wish, “What for, tesoro?” 

“It’s _San Giuseppe_ today. Your name-day.”

Yusuf blinks rapidly, “My name-day?” He asks back in confusion. 

“I mean, I know you don’t celebrate name-days… I didn’t mean to- and of course your name is Yusuf, not Giuseppe, but they have the sam- I...”

“Giuseppe…” Yusuf squeezes Nicolò, hoping it will somehow convey that he's not offended by the concept of name-days. “He’s the one who was Jesus's father, right?”

“Of this earth, yes.” Nicolò hugs him closer and takes a big breath. Clearly he has more to say. “In the abbey we... they used to celebrate fathers on this day. The last time we were in Italy I heard the francescani were starting to do it as well.”

Yusuf finds himself choking back a sob as the events of the day start to really sink in. He clears his throat and asks, “the _frisceü_?”

“It’s what the people from the village would cook”, Nicolò explains sounding almost embarrassed about it.

“Oh little lamb.” Yusuf feels his heart swell with love and tenderness for the sweet, marvellous creature in his arms.

“You… you really don’t mind?” He asks quietly and he’s clearly struggling not to slip back again. Today’s been an absolute mess for his poor, sweet Nicolò.

“Not at all, habibi. I’m honored that you would think of me like that,” he assures him once again.

He feels Nicolò nibbling at his lip and he turns slightly to eye Yusuf from under his eyelashes, “Is it really, _really_ , okay?”. His voice is growing airy and light.

As he smiles, Yusuf starts peppering silly, little kisses on his neck, cheek, shoulder, wherever he can reach. “Yes, little lamb. I love you.”

Nicolò goes soft and pliant between his arms, curling warm and content as the tension inside him seems to completely disappear for once, “love you too, baba.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _“frisceü dôsci”:_ “sweet fritters” in Zeneize. Round fritters with raisins or diced apples inside, usually sprinkled with sugar. In Genova they are typically made on March 19th to celebrate St. Joseph Day (I don’t think the exact recipe is as old as Nicolò is, but shhh we’ll pretend it is).  
>  _“sfenj”:_ a Maghrebi dessert that consists of a ring of dough fried in oil. Sfenj is eaten plain, sprinkled with sugar, or soaked in honey. It originated in Al-Andalus.  
>  _“Auguri”:_ is Italian for “best wishes”, “all the best” or “congratulation”. It’s used for something that is about to happen or just has, for which you wish somebody the best.  
>  _“San Giuseppe”:_ “Saint Joseph”. Jesus’s earthly dad. His feast is celebrated on March 19th and this day also serves as Father’s day in Italy and some other countries. Benedictines were already celebrating this occurrence in 1030, followed centuries later by other monastic orders (Franciscans started in 1399). It’s highly possible that the cult of Saint Joseph got intertwined (as it’s often the case with catholic celebrations and former pagan festivals) with the pre-existing Liberalia, the Roman festival of Liber Pater which was celebrated on March 17th and during which wine was drunk and wheat fritters were fried in hot lard. To this day fried desserts are very common throughout Italy in this period of the year (maybe you’ve heard of Zeppole for example).  
> Here we have it, the first time Nicky called Joe “baba” ~~and it only took him a couple of centuries~~!! I’ve wanted to write about this pretty much since I published the first story!  
> I swear one day I’ll write something for this series that will be totally angst free and where Nicky won’t cry a single tear. ~~Apropos, how do you feel about the rest of the family learning about little!Nicky?~~  
>  I hope you guys enjoyed this and happy Father’s day to anyone who celebrates it♥


End file.
